Before Shadows Eat our Thoughts
by emmacortana
Summary: Merlin has tried to tell people in the Asylum of the shadows that gnaw on their heads and feast on their thoughts, only to be labeled as insane. And then there's the new patient—a boy just as broken as he is. A boy who is lacerated with scars that they say he self-inflicted, but he swears that he had never. And when the shadows chew on him, Arthur Pendragon screams.


**A/N I'm just going to copy and paste what I wrote on AO3 onto here, so here goes.**

 **Full Summary: Merlin Liddell was fourteen when he was locked away in the Rutledge Asylum, diagnosed with schizophrenia and deemed a danger to the world. Even three years later, they still won't believe that he never hurt anyone—it was the shadows who did it. Sometimes they make him, sometimes they hurt him, but for the most part, they just exist. They eat at everyone, everywhere, and nobody seems to notice their head carved open and their thoughts being drunk by the shadows. They call him crazy when he tries to tell them.**

 **Merlin has long since retreated into himself, barely speaking, barely moving, barely interacting with anything of the world. And then the asylum gets a new patient—a boy just as young and as broken as he is.**

 **A boy whose body is covered in scars and scratches, from years of cuts, bruises and near deaths, who had never gone a week without another appearing. A boy who claims he never once hurt himself, that something was doing it to him and they wanted to kill him. A boy named Arthur Pendragon.**

 **Merlin sees the shadows feast on his thoughts.**

 **Arthur screams that his head is being torn apart.**

 **A/N I should mention now that I am, for one, horrible at writing blurbs, and for another, even worse at the first several chapters. I really, really don't like this chapter—I was just trying to get a feel for how I'd write for Merlin and what the overall vibe of the story and the asylum is. It's only a filler—in fact, you could probably just skip right ahead to chapter 2, if you'd like, (when it's out, of course.) That being said, don't be surprised if I majorly edit the first chapter and re-upload it so it better fits the story and the plot, and probably the characters as well.**

 **Another thing: You might've noticed that there are a lot of inspiration taken from many different sources. The main ones were Fran Bow, American McGee's Alice, and Alice in Wonderland. You'll really find a lot of connections—so please don't be mad at me that some things sound familiar, or that I basically stole the concept of the shadows from Fran Bow, (although I did add a few changes that'll be evident, later.) Not to mention Merlin's last name. This is just a heads up. I simply adore the stories of all three and after I read and watched them, I was bursting with inspiration. I'm giving all the credit for many ideas and themes of the novel straight away to these three sources.**

 **And finally, this is in no way meant to be taken as a serious interpretation of a real life mental asylum, or someone with schizophrenia/other mental illnesses, (although Merlin may not actually have schizophrenia,) or really anything. This is just a setting with presumably some details added and some omitted to better fit the plot that I envisioned for this story. Please don't feel as if I'm invalidating experiences or sugarcoating anything. If I offend anyone who is actually affected by the themes of this piece, then I deeply apologize, and feel free to contact me on how I could make it less offensive and more realistic and truthful.**

 **Thank you!**

* * *

Mrs. Liddell,

Your son has settled in nicely into our care. Merlin seems to be functioning well, and we have found no cause for concern as of the moment, although it is far too soon to tell. As we've discussed, he'll begin his treatment effective immediately, with twice daily sessions with Dr. McGill, which will be reduced to his needs. Again, visiting hours are 2-4 pm, every second and fourth Sunday of the month. If you have any questions or worries, please feel free to contact me or any other member of the asylum through phone during business hours or through email.

Dr. Q. Wilson, Head Psychiatrist of the Rutledge Asylum.

—

 _Three Years Later_

Today was not a good day.

Merlin was in bed, like he often was, lying still and unperturbed until the dreaded time of his ten o'clock. The two sessions a day schedule was only supposed to be for the first week, and after he was thoroughly evaluated, he should've decreased to once a day, or even every other. He had complained enough about it, but the doctor only wrote down something on his stupid clipboard, clucking his tongue, and the nurses only shook their heads and smiled, occasionally saying, "Soon, honey."

Gwen was his favourite. She was the only one who could bring him out of his seemingly catatonic states. He didn't _really_ have catatonia—or at least, he didn't think so. He just acted like it sometimes. Besides, he didn't have all of the symptoms, and from what he knew, most others with it were very different from him.

After all, everyone just thought he was trying to avoid his life, and to be fair, it does sound reasonable, and he has tried to fake it before to get out of sessions or meals. Gwen was the only one who listened to him, about what happens on his bad days, when the world is burning down.

Still, she didn't believe him. Well, she believed he was crazy, for sure. Insane. Mad. She believed that was what he saw, not that what he saw was actually true.

He supposed this was best. Gwen would hear him out and comfort him, safe in her belief that he was just another nutcase in a house full of them. She would be understanding of his fright but nevertheless be blind, wrapped in the lies that the world is safe.

Some days, it would be so bad that Merlin would see the shadows enveloping _her_ , too. Those were the days that he was sure the world would end. He tried not to mind the shadows. They followed everyone wherever they went, and they chewed and tore and killed the people. But nobody ever seemed to notice or mind. Sometimes, they'd turn up with scratches or bruises that they had no idea where it came from, and Merlin knew it was the shadows, but nobody ever believed him.

He could never see his own shadow, but he knew it was there. He could feel it. Like a tint of darkness that was at the corner of his vision, but danced away when he turned. On his worst days, he could feel their teeth, chewing on his brain and tearing at his ribs. It made it painful to move or even breathe. It was like he was getting the air sucked out of his lungs, like a child breathing in helium from a balloon or an addict inhaling in smoke. And while nobody could see the shadows, or believe them to be real, everyone could sense that Merlin was slowly dying. And it was then, when Merlin could barely seem to recognize himself or his thoughts. Then, when he was a total stranger, when the shadows would whisper a name at him and loomed closer and closer….

Today, thankfully, wasn't one of those days. He only felt exhausted, to the point of being unable to move.

It was an hour until his session that Gwen came into the room, chattering about anything and nothing at all as she drew aside the curtains. "Rise and shine," she chirped, and Merlin, too tired to protest, simply closed his eyes.

Gwen clucked her tongue, all too familiar with his antics. She knew it was his way of shutting her out, and she wouldn't let that happen. So undeterred, she continued in her aimless one-sided conversation, as she mussed his hair and tried to sit him up.

Today was one of those days when he didn't resist. He didn't have the energy. He simply just let his body stay in whatever position that Gwen put him in, and Gwen brought him to the edge of his bed.

Sadly, this also meant that Gwen would be pulling him up any moment now, and unless he wanted to flop on the floor, he better snap out of it and at least carry _some_ of himself.

Gwen lifted him up.

He flopped onto the floor.

She sighed, trying to put a teasing tone into a, "Are you really going to do this today, Merlin?" He got a lot of those.

After some thirty minutes of her attempting to bring him up and get him to respond, and his body staying adamantly still, she finally consented to sending for the doctor to visit him in his quarters today.

Some days, the doctor would refuse, and the nurses had to drag him, either immobile or kicking and screaming. What use was it to talk to McGill, when he never listened and nothing ever changed?

A quarter hour passed, and Merlin heard a knock at the door. McGill wasn't really expecting an answer or permission, just merely alerting Merlin of his presence before he barged in.

The brief physical tests passed swiftly. A flashlight to his eyes, seeing the reactions of his poking and prodding, flailing around his arms and legs to see if there's any resistance. And then came the talking. It was pointless, and they both knew it. McGill would ask questions, and Merlin would not respond. Eventually, they would just sit in silence as McGill wrote, "unresponsive," on that clipboard of his, and would leave, having better things to waste his time with.

Only to return later in the day, where he would find him unchanged, now only with an IV attached to him to keep him hydrated. Then he would take his notes, and leave again.

This was how it went. Each day takes one of either three routes, and this hasn't changed ever since he'd arrived.

Except, before he left, he says, "Oh, and Merlin, I won't be back tonight. We have a new patient." Short, and to the point, and Merlin felt himself breathe out some relief. Brief as they were, these sessions were nothing to look forward to, and sometimes, McGill would be relentless, forcing him to talk or interact or do _something_. They left him physically exhausted.

But Merlin also felt a hint of curiosity, as he always did when the nurses gossiped about new patients. They weren't really supposed to talk about them, but they assumed Merlin was too far gone or too dumb to understand, and he had never given them reason to think differently.

He liked it this way. Otherwise, how was he to know what news there was? Life would be even more of a bore than it already was.

So when the nurses came back to attach him to his IV, he listened intently.

"I can't believe we're still accepting patients. We're already almost full." Jack said.

Merlin internally grimaced as Grace inserted the needle into his arm. Despite her years of employment, she still fished with the needle, sending tiny pinpricks of pain up his arm. "I heard he's pretty far gone. Apparently, there hasn't been a week that's gone by without him hurting himself real bad. Pity though, he's a cute thing, and smart, too. And so young."

Merlin's interest grew. There weren't many people his age in here, although the asylum was meant for young people. Their definition of "young adults" didn't match up with his, and he was only one of two seventeen year olds present. Most were in their mid-twenties to late thirties. Most people's conditions developed early or fairly late, and any younger than eighteen would normally mean a child mental institution—except for the two, of course, who were much too severe for them.

Merlin used to be in a child institution. But he only seemed to get worse. Will was his last straw.

They wouldn't believe him. Not when he said he was trying to save him. Not when he said he hadn't done it. And especially not after Will had finally woken up, and when Merlin had snuck into his room, screamed and screamed.

His explanations about the shadows only ensured the call to his mother, saying, "Your son just isn't the right fit, here."

But he _hadn't_ done it, and does that not account for anything? In fact, he was the one who _saved_ Will. The shadow was chewing on his head, but not like normal. Shadows always seemed to feast on people's head—where their thoughts and feelings were. Merlin was convinced that some people had all of their thoughts completely stolen, that they were incapable of thinking or feeling.

But that time, the shadow was literally _biting his head open._ And he could see Will getting duller and duller.

So he swung a chair at the shadow, as hard as he could. And it went away, for a while.

But when Merlin was being escorted out of the institution, he saw a brief glance at Will, and he knew it was back.

Ever since then, he was the youngest of all of Rutledge's patients. The other boy, Peter, was eighteen, and the doctors and nurses had tried to set them up together as friends, but Peter, although sweet, was far too dull and boring for Merlin to be decently interested, and Merlin was far too dead for Peter to be friends with.

So they lived knowing each other existed, and that was all.

But the new boy—was it a boy? Yes, the boy—he was young. And he knew that when nurses talked about patients like that—all sweet and soft and pitiful—it meant he was very young, and very gone.

After all, it was a voice specially reserved for him.

With a jolt, Merlin realized he had been so lost in his thoughts he hadn't heard the rest of what the nurses had said, or notice their leaving. He knew that again, the doctors would try to set them up together. Everyone knew that Merlin was lonely except himself, and they thought someone his age might be beneficial to him socially.

Eventually, with the news sowing both curiosity and dread to reap in his mind, Merlin drifted off to sleep. He wasn't quite sure what to expect from this new boy, and he wasn't interested, per say, but instead more gladdened. Boredom and little change from day to day had left Merlin with a lust for adventure, stimulation, mental challenge. The need to think, for once, about something both entirely relevant and important and yet frivolous and shallow.

Besides, it's been too many years since Merlin had anything to be curious—damn, even _excited_ about.


End file.
